


Not Necessarily Cause For Alarm

by EmmyJay



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, FACE Family, Family Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 01:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15898575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay
Summary: "It is a little late for that...we cannot simply drop them back at the agency with a note saying, 'thank you, but no.'"On their first night as a family with their newly-adopted boys, Francis watches his husband decide now is the time to lose his composure entirely.





	Not Necessarily Cause For Alarm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jessaverant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/gifts).



> Originally written May 2011 to make my friend coo. Revised and reposted now to achieve a similar result.

"I don't think I can do this."

Francis looked up, catching his husband's eyes from across the crib as they stood watching the two boys sleeping peacefully within, bundled in the blankets their father had painstakingly embroidered. Arthur had labored over them, one for each son, throwing all his focus into the work whenever the adoption process got too stressful. Francis had often expressed concern that he was spending so much time on these personalized gifts, when the possibility still loomed that something could go wrong, the adoption would fall through, and they would be left with a pair of painful reminders of what could have been.

But it had not gone wrong; the adoption had not fallen through. All those months of waiting and fretting, and the couple finally had their boys, asleep under the blankets labeled _Matthew_ and _Alfred_. And of course, as was Arthur's nature, he had chosen to wait until this very moment to lose his composure entirely.

"Do what, Arthur?" Francis asked. The man in question looked at his husband, then back at the children, then back at his husband; he swallowed.

"This. This parent thing."

Francis blinked. "You are deciding this now?"

"It didn't really hit me until just now." Arthur swallowed again, harder this time. "No, I can't do this. I'm not father material, there's no way."

"It is a little later for that, _mon amour_ ," Francis smiled wryly. "We cannot simply drop them back at the agency with a note saying, 'thank you, but no.'" His husband sputtered wordlessly, and he continued over him, "Arthur, you will be **fine** , a _wonderful_ parent. Have we not already prepared ourselves for this?"

Apparently, Arthur had not.

"I just keep thinking, about how I used to be," he sighed. "I wasn't the best person in my younger days. I was, well..."

"A delinquent?" Francis supplied helpfully. Arthur glared at him.

" _Yes_ ," he grumbled. "I'm hardly a good role model. How am I supposed to tell our sons to make good choices, when I've made so many bad ones?"

Francis opened his mouth to say something reassuring, something that might even have worked. But he was interrupted preemptively by a noise from below, and both men immediately directed their attentions downward. In the crib, Alfred had begun to fuss: kicking his feet and waving his tiny fists, face scrunched with displeasure. Glancing back up, Francis saw that Arthur wore an expression of panic, staring in something like horror as the baby made little sobbing noises, clearly on the verge of tears—and he saw an opportunity.

"He wants to be held," he said, slyly. "You should pick him up."

Arthur openly balked at his husband as though the man had just proposed treason against Her Majesty the Queen of England.

"I can't hold him," he gasped out, looking down again at the squirming form. "I don't know how!"

"Yes, you do," Francis pressed. "We went to the classes, _mon amour_. We practiced on the dolls. I distinctly remember the instructor commenting on how naturally it came to you."

"Yes, but that was a **doll**!" Arthur insisted, exasperated. "This is real! A living, breathing...thing!"

"It's called a baby." Francis reached into the crib, gently lifting Alfred with both hands. "And you can do it."

There was a fair amount of shifting as the boy passed from one father to the other, Arthur shakily arranging his tiny body into the position they had practiced. He made a sound of distress as the small weight settled in his arms, clearly convinced that something would go wrong, something would fall, something would break—

"Do you have him?" Francis asked.

He had him.

The boys were not newborns, but Alfred still looked impossibly small in Arthur's arms, as if he was simply too little to exist. That was certainly how Arthur seemed to feel, keeping his arms still and immobile, as though the slightest movement could lead to disaster. "How do I know if I'm doing this right?"

Francis gave his husband a critical look.

"Well," he offered, "you could start by not holding him as though he's about to explode. Remember what it said in the books: they like to be held close to your chest, so they can hear your heart—"

"—because it reminds them of being in the womb, I know." Arthur shuffled some, re-positioning Alfred. The boy made a series of unhappy sounds at being jostled, but once he was cuddled against Arthur's chest he seemed to settle, burbling softly.

"He's so small," Arthur wondered, voice low. "Can we really do this?"

Francis shrugged. "It will not be a picnic. But...yes, I believe that we can."

Carefully, Arthur freed one hand, gently touching Alfred's tiny fist with one finger. Immediately it opened like a flower, tiny fingers stretching wide before closing around the much larger one, clutching tightly.

"What if they don't like us?" he blurted out. Francis crossed his arms across his chest, shifting his weight to a considering stance.

"We will deal with that if it comes," he smiled. "But this one seems to like you well enough."

Back in the crib, Matthew made a small noise: not the demanding fuss that his brother had raised, but enough to garner his parents' attention. Francis reached into the crib to smooth the boy's hair, the same gold as Alfred's but with a barely-noticeable difference in texture; possibly curls, once it grew longer.

"He is probably hungry," he pondered aloud. "Wait here, I will get the bottle."

When he returned several minutes later, Arthur had settled into the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery, now with Matthew nestled next to his brother. It was a considerable armful, but Arthur had managed: easing gently back and forth, the chair's curved wooden legs making a light _creak_ with each movement.

"They're asleep," he said, barely more than a breath, his voice filled with awe. "They're asleep in my arms."

"They feel safe with you," Francis confirmed. "They know their Daddy."

The two men met eyes, blue staring pointedly into green as though daring him to try doubting himself again. Arthur was the first to look away, and the corners of Francis' mouth twitched in a smug smile.

"Maybe this won't be so bad," Arthur finally conceded, choosing to focus on his armful. "Yeah...okay. I can do this."

And he would. Because they were family—for better or for worse, they were his.


End file.
